Wednesday, 22 June 2011

HOW DO YOU DO . . . stagnation

Isn’t it like an old pond or soming? Well it is, but it isn’t just that, or maybe it is. Maybe I could skew some big metaphor out of the tired reeds listlessly aching into terminal decay... No, I’m not, if you want to, do it, go gonzo. Saves me an opener.

No one can describe it yet some people get you; they know your funny little brain twitches. They spend more and more time storing all your idiosyncrasies, pre-whimming your whims, and you with them too, both dressing evermore alike, conversation syntaxes start to resemble identical twins talking. 

Years pass, your mixture rises, sets, hardens, then you turn one day and look at that person you’re moulded to, and have eighteen bored kids with. A person so hateful of their encyclopedic knowledge of you; desperate for a mystery, an enigma, a secret that dosen’t involve infidelity or crabs. Yet you preferably ignore the dirty great bleeding dagger eyes, because you or I and countless billions, have followed the slew of compliant behavior, endorsing, recommend and promoted life that can’t help but to, one day, stagnate.   I’m not recommending freelove or dating donkeys, latex lubed polygamy though?

Not everyone makes a contribution to the lives of others; some people don’t even contribute to themselves. Two weeks last Tuesday, try and remember it in any residual defining detail, unless you did something out of the ordinarily, you can’t, its gone like all the other Tuesdays, like all the days. Our brains only remember worthwhile information that’s why only 0.2% of the population need to recall the advice section on Snog Marry Avoid, for the rest of us our brains are mid-week coasting. 

There are a small percentage that do recall Tuesdays and even Thursdays in greater clarity than “the day The Apprentice is not on,” these are the people we, should, kill.  Or just de-friend as they’re filling up all that middle bit with all the exciting things they’re doing and all the friends they’re making who all take photos of each other, smiling with interesting people that aren’t in the telly but off the telly. What selfish soon to be murdered, bastards.

Sod this
We all feel shitty and worthless every now and again. If we don’t then we’re wrong, psychopathic or Robin Williams in Bicentennial Man before he had to watch the WHOLE film.

If we dug into this Pandora’s suitcase we may find your childhood anxieties, parental disappointments, neurological abnormalities and under all that, under the abuse, the dismorphia, the bullies, under the weird shaped vagina and the lop-sided testes is this. Life.

As life continuingly replaces life with more life you are expected to shuffle on, fight to get that promotion and feel that momentary sense of comfort until they tax more of it and you spend more of it and you realise instead of being in some comfortability haven you’re in purgatory going for holidays in Haven.

The age is upon us, hurry the fuck up
The past 60 years has given us revolutions, definable conscious  changes, this last decade has given us, what, an electric car that seats two people, looks radically unattractive and needs a recharge every 60 miles.  Phones that cost the same as computers that do less than computers and break on contact with the outside world.  An uptake in The Financial Times readership because we all wanted to find out where all the money has gone to, turns out it was going to the fellow readers of The Financial Times.

All around you is supposed to be evolving yet the news is still largely about violence and its consequences, man’s stupidity and the resulting planetary wound, or political change that changes nothing.  So you turn over to watch a repeat of a reality show that’s scripted because real reality is so last decade.

Back in time
As a pervasive sense of collective resignation fills the air, stirs the souls and let’s the soul sit and stagnate, like that pond. We may recall they’re people the world right now working in Victorian workhouse conditions, there are still slaves, there are pirates, there are whalers, prostitutes, there are people dying of; hunger, being gay, being a different colour, being born female, or in the wrong country. Mass graves are filling up now, Mafioso run governments, systematic world corruption and a bit of neo terrorism for kicks.

If anything in a moral and social sense, we're devolving. As the necessary monotonies or work and transit continue to keep this business of business valid and integral, we the masses vie for greater shares of the money tree knowing that with our fantasy fortunes there will come real miss fortune for more.

But the ethics of anything nowadays is important if we can do it and make money, if we can’t then we can just commit to it and default when no ones looking.  Everyone does it, government overseas aid, health care promises, party promises, doorstep promises that get cancelled the moment they leave. 

“I mean why do I need to care for warthogs in Rhodesia when I’ve got a wasps nest in upstairs bedroom, I mean, really.”

 “I recycle paper but all that other stuff, well; it’s rubbish isn’t it."  

"I only shop at Primark, it's that cheap, they must be paying someone pittance, but £4 you can’t go wrong.”

“Get the cheap eggs, you get more they were fine to eat before all that organic shite came along.”

Tweetie pie
What about that twitter, what about twitter. So there’s a new platform to share our thoughts, communicate our cynicisms, chat our fingers off. It’s like text messaging but your inbox is filled with strangers and Stephen Fry, I suspect the reason why they all became his friend was to see how’s he’d write anything in under 140 characters.

There will always be facilities to communicate our thoughts on or through but if we’re all discussing Justin Beiber’s new chest hair, what’s the point.

These technologies are our media’s bench marks of human achievement, that and the latest ithing or our realisation we shouldn’t kill all the fish, just kill almost all of them then go to another fish and almost kill them into extinction too.

Who said we are constantly evolving may not be aware of our innate sense to flounder, to shun destiny finding sustenance in the now. If our next development age is a big step, the human race is more likely to sit on said step having a fag waiting for the stanna stair lift to come.

There are alternatives but isn’t it just comfortable this way? Is it so bad, I mean treading waters pretty neat, right? Wallowing in your own filth is funky and funky can be used by some morons as a positive, can’t it? Killing time is amazing though, no? Not even if you’re brutally smashing up clocks, ok that’s fun.   I was wrong.

Looking forward into the distant present 2060, the years of lacklustre have idly leaked into an ocean of how, when, where and w-w-w why?  The floating slums towns, under sunken cities reflect the polarised peoples without polar caps or their bears.  Some try in hopeless protectionism to cling to lifestyles improbable then, impossible now.  Without fossil fuels, the earth is less a commodity more a primitive baron land mass, striped of its worth, farmed into wasteland.  

The stagnation has set in, look around you, faces foul scowled and resolute to the dead end of a path their fore fathers followed blinkered yet not blind to the conclusion of reaping only low hanging fruit.  Now without fruit trees or even absurd fundamentalist saviors, they grow weary, pathetically collapse where they will hopefully die.   Their minds call out for more but their bodies are retched mute symbols of ubiquitous failure.

"Mar mahh mab mehhhh.”  Are they gone yet?

"Mirrr Mi Muarghh.”  I think they’re all extinct.

“Magaaahhh! Mar mrarrrh maauooo ma moror mrahhh.”  Wooow! Didn’t I tell you it was a good idea to hide in these Bora Bora caves.

“Mrah.”  Friends the whole world is ours, we have no predators, we can be whatever we were never allowed to be before.

“Mah mah muripo.”  I want to be a cat.

“Mr mah mru mru.”  Me too.

“Mrahmrahmip muripo.”  I want to be two cats.

“Mah ma ah.”   I do, I do.

“Mrrar mra mirarr mahh mrghh oh.”  Behold, the next great Age, of the Dodo.

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